


Panic

by Anonymous



Series: Musketeers Spanking Fics [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Discipline, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-16
Updated: 2015-05-16
Packaged: 2018-03-30 21:02:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3951646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“If you are seeking to provoke severity, Aramis,” Athos said calmly, turning to his friend and stepping up to him until Aramis, wide-eyed and seemingly wary,  found his back pressed against his saddlebag, “You have done so.  Now stop.”</p><p>Aramis would not meet his eyes and so he turned away then, intending to check on the girl, and d'Artagnan before they continued.  Admitting himself hurt by his friend's accusations, Athos refused to be swayed into sympathy by the faint trembling of Aramis' jaw or even the too-bright shimmer in his gaze as he lowered his eyes.  He was not sympathetic.  He was not.  Aramis had completely disregarded his authority,  jeopardised their mission, their lives and that of their quarry.  Athos would deal with him later..."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is not the story I intended to write after posting the first one but it's the one that came out. Apologies for anybody awaiting Rousillon, I've no idea when I'll get to that but hopefully you'll enjoy this one anyway - it is, after all, Aramis on the receiving end this time.
> 
> This first chapter was actually written for a different non-spanking story but I don't think I will ever continue that one so as the mission mentioned was the same, I decided to include it anyway in this one. It's mostly set up but the rest focuses almost entirely on the spanking so I figure we can afford one chapter of set up.

Captain Treville shook his head wearily as he set the pages of Athos' report aside, fixing the younger of the two men in front of him with a stern glare.

 

“Do you have anything to add to this account?”

 

“No, Sir.” Aramis stared at his feet, brow creased in a frown.

 

“You have no...excuse to offer as to why you chose to open fire on what had, until you came along, been the peaceful exchange of hostages?”

 

“No, Sir.”

 

“And you?” Treville asked, turning with a sigh to Athos, “Haven't you anything to add? Something perhaps that you felt it better not to have included in your report.”

 

Athos pursed his lips at the insinuation, justified as it was. He glanced briefly at his shamefaced companion before replying.

 

“Only that Aramis would not have shot if he had not felt both the girl and d'Artagnan to be in immediate danger.”

 

“Madame de Foix has remained entirely unharmed by her captors this past week; it was only by your doing that she came to any harm at all. As for d'Artagnan, I think by now we can trust he is able to hold his own until assistance arrives.”

 

A chorus of 'Yes, Sir's followed.

 

“Was there any reason to suspect her captors would attempt to harm her – at the moment they had agreed to exchange her for the boy?” This again directed at Athos.

 

“They certainly did seem particularly well-armed for a peaceful exchange.”

 

“But?”

 

“But, had I seen reason to suspect them, I would have acted.”

 

“And as it was,” Treville concluded, addressing him still, though he turned his pointed glare to Aramis, “You did not.”

 

“No, Sir.”

 

“You were ordered not to shoot until the lady was safely out of the line of fire? Unless explicitly given a signal to do so sooner?” Treville now asked of Aramis.

 

“It was...suggested,” Aramis hedged delicately, not raising his gaze.

 

“Suggested. By. Whom?”

 

“By...” Finally, Aramis was forced to raise his gaze, and nodded reluctantly towards Athos.

 

“By me.”

 

Treville nodded, a twisted smile briefly crossing his face. “You were _ordered_.”

 

A pause, then:

 

“Yes, Sir.”

 

“An order you chose to ignore.”

 

“I … Yes, Sir.”

 

Treville stood, turning his back on the two of them and moving to stare out of the open window into the yard below. Madam de Foix – a young lady of the court, and dear friend to the queen – had long since departed, citing exhaustion after the week's events as her reason. A young girl of barely seventeen, her husband had been slain in battle only six months into their marriage and she had been travelling home to her father's estate when the hijack had occurred. Having received word of her kidnap and the subsequent ransom demand, Queen Anne had immediately enlisted Treville and his men to get her back. The queen, with the support of her husband the king, had insisted that only Treville's best would do and so it had not been long before a plan had been formed amongst them. Namely, to exchange d'Artagnan – though for the purposes of the plan, he was in fact to be Monsieur Gerard de Foix, brother and unimaginably wealthy heir to the lady's late husband – for the young lady, and, having gotten her out of harm's way, to perform a daring and impressive rescue/escape before having all those responsible arrested. That her captors were amenable to the exchange was fortunate, that the men had not harmed her whilst she was in their clutches was even more so; the fact that despite Aramis' interference she was now safely at home with her real brother-in-law, and with her own brother on his way to escort her back to their own estate was nothing short of incredible.

 

Glancing down, Treville saw Porthos and d'Artagnan who sat directly beneath his window, gentle conversation drifting upwards from where they sat, no doubt having hoped they might catch wind of how discussions were going. D'Artagnan was mostly unharmed, having received nothing worse than he might in the training yard despite being unarmed for the purposes of the exchange and that too was no small feat. Still, as he leaned forwards to snag a bottle from Porthos' clutches, a cut on the young man's side seemed to catch him and he paled, fingers going slack around the bottle neck. Odd as it may have seemed had Treville tried to explain, Porthos' quiet 'You all right?' and hand placed understandingly on the Gascon's arm suddenly seemed to soothe their captain's ire. They had each formed a fierce bond with the young Gascon, Treville was not blind to that, and seeing an armed might-be-assailant approach their unarmed 'little brother' would of course have spurred any of them into action – _he_ would do no less for any of his men. Chancing a glance back at the two men silently awaiting his judgement – for no doubt Athos was as anxious as his fellow – Treville felt his ill will waning a little more. Aramis would hold himself personally responsible for every _scratch_ d'Artagnan had received that day, and for every night the young lady awoke in fear with gunshots ringing in her ears, and, though Treville was perfectly within his rights to see the man punished, it would do little good when the man was so adept at torturing himself in his mind anyway.

 

“If either of them had been _harmed_ ,” he began, turning fully to face Aramis once more, “I would have had you stripped of your uniform and back in your previous regiment before nightfall.”

 

Aramis' frown deepened, his breath trembling slightly as he nodded wordlessly. Athos did not move from his place at Aramis' side, though his jaw clenched so tightly Treville wondered if it pained him.

 

“As it is...” - Aramis' head shot up - “The young lady is home safe and sound, and I see no need to pursue official action – no doubt Madame and the Queen herself would protest your innocence. With that in mind, I _suggest_ you tend to the weapons in the armoury tomorrow before you commence duties.”

 

“Yes, Sir,” Aramis replied with an ill-concealed wince.

 

“I will add that should you see fit to disregard _my_ 'suggestion', you will not find me so lenient.”  
  
Aramis nodded.

 

“Good. Dismissed.” Both men turned to leave. “Athos – a moment please.”

 

Aramis paused at the door, eyes suddenly worried once more and searching his captain's face.

 

“Captain?” Athos wandered back to his place before the desk, clearly sharing his friend’s uncertainty.

 

“Aramis, close the door as you leave.”

 

Aramis stood his ground even after Treville's not-so-subtle reminder that he was dismissed, instead turning to Athos as if seeking further instruction.

 

“Go on,” Athos said calmly, one hand clapped to his friend's elbow, “I'll catch up or else meet you at my rooms.”

 

A flicker of sheer relief crossing his face, Aramis left, and Treville waited until he heard d'Artagnan's urgent questioning, which indicated Aramis had indeed left, that he spoke again.

 

“This cannot happen again,” Treville stated without preamble, “I looked to you as my second; I know he is your friend, Athos, but if you cannot control your men then –”

 

“If I may, Captain, I cannot agree that this was a matter of ' _control_ ' and I think it -” Athos broke off, his jaw clenching as he swallowed back his words.

 

“Please continue,” Treville prompted, sitting back in his chair and raising one brow in invitation. Athos was not a man given to backtalk – unlike his friends who seemed to permanently teeter on the brink of insubordination – and Treville was ever curious as to the sharp words silenced by Athos' courtly upbringing. One could never be sure what to expect from him when Athos was given the opportunity to give voice to his objections so freely. “You disagree, and think it what?”

 

“I think it an insult that you would imply that I allow my judgement to be compromised by my personal regard for Aramis – or any of others for that matter.”

 

“Indeed?”

 

Treville could not help but give voice to his scepticism. The very fact that these well-named 'inseparables' were _so_ driven by their regard for one another was the very reason they worked so well together. And it had to be said, his own begrudging fondness for the three – now four – of them was often in danger of colouring his own judgement of their actions: where another superior would likely feel vindictive fury to hear of the day's events, Treville found his fury tempered somewhat by paternal concern that there may be discord enough between them to inspire such insubordination. Of course, he would feel very different had the mission itself been compromised by it.

 

“Aramis has served longer than any of you,” Treville said carefully, “And yet it is hardly a secret that the entire garrison – indeed half of Paris – expects _you_ to take my place as captain one day. Are you so certain that he is as content with that as he says?”

 

He watched as comprehension dawned upon Athos' face and could not help but feel a twinge of guilt at the sudden uncertainty in his lieutenant's eyes before it was masked.

 

“I think...” Athos paused, wet his lips before continuing, his voice careful but steeled, “I think it rather belittling to discuss this behind his back, Sir. But I believe nothing could be further from his mind; he seeks always only recognition, not promotion.”

 

Treville held his gaze for one long moment, his pride stinging a little from the obvious reprimand: 'behind his back' as if he were proposing idle gossip. Still, he had invited Athos speak freely and clearly that was what he had done. It had only reaffirmed what Treville wanted to believe. Finally, he sighed and shook his head slightly.

 

“Very well. You may inform him that his actions have indeed been...recognised,” he levelled an unimpressed glare at the younger man whose mouth thinned almost imperceptibly, “I can trust this will not happen again?”

 

Athos nodded.

 

“Very well,” Treville repeated, an air of finality to his voice. “Deal with it as you see fit, and see to it that my _suggestion_ is given due consideration. Dismissed.”

 

From his window, Treville watched as Athos emerged into the courtyard and exchanged a few words with d'Artagnan, who had remained waiting for him. The boy looked concerned, then a little confused, then suddenly concerned to the point of distress. A few more words from Athos, and a placating hand upon his shoulder and he nodded shortly, grim but accepting. They parted ways at the gate and Treville smiled a little, amused and a little awed by how readily the three inseparables had taken d'Artagnan as a fourth into their midst when all previous attempts from others had been met with anything ranging from civil refusal to outright hostility. Knowing Aramis as he did, Treville was therefore unsurprised by his readiness to disobey orders and put his own life in danger in order to – as he had presumably felt – keep their 'whelp' safe. It was, he reflected, no less than he would likely do for any of his men if it came down to it.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

There was, Athos reflected, something oddly calming about punishing Aramis. He took no pleasure from willingly inflicting pain on any of his brothers though they had often jestingly accused otherwise. But something about knowing the man currently gracing his knees felt the lesson was deserved as much – if not more – as Athos did always served to soothe any lingering doubt in his mind. There was also great pride to be taken in the fact that, if only for a short time, in Athos Aramis could seek solace and forgiveness from someone other than his silent and unmoved deity. How perfect and yet unconscionably self-serving that Athos was given such opportunity – and, it had to be said, so frequently too – to offer absolution to the one man in his acquaintance from whom he may one day eventually feel worthy enough to seek his own absolution. Unseen by Aramis, Athos shook his head to derail that particular train of thought. Such examinations of motive were entirely unhelpful at such times. Besides which, Athos had only to close his eyes and recall the days events and what gruesome end had almost befallen his brothers to convince himself that his attentions were for the right reasons.

 

Athos smoothed one hand across the other man's shoulders, unwilling to break the anticipatory silence just yet. He took his time with Aramis – more so than he did d'Artagnan. His contemplative brother felt his guilt so deeply and needed time to come to terms and feel he had _suffered_ in order to take any relief from the punishment. To rush him only served to increase his distress in the long term – how could the slate be wiped clean if the consequence had been over so quickly? And the pain was not what mattered so much as the act of his submitting and enduring it. He had rarely had to use force with Aramis, and when he had done it had usually been so minimal as to make him wonder whether the resistance had been but a show all along meant to coerce him into severity where he had not intended it. In such instances he would indulge his penitent young brother – far better he endure more pain now than be left feeling that his wrongdoing had not been dealt with. As for Athos, any discomfort he may have felt at inflicting more pain than was warranted was still infinitely preferable to that which Aramis would seek to inflict upon himself if he did not.

 

So, timing was important when it came to Aramis. Not only of the punishment itself but of how long could be allowed to pass between his misbehaviour and Athos' taking him in hand. Too short a time and Aramis was left resentful – confused – to have been reprimanded so soundly when he had not yet had time to reflect upon the severity of his actions, but too long and his manner turned sullen and irritable as his self-reproach grew until it was as much for everyone else's sake as Aramis' that Athos saw to him. All too often there was a compromise to be made between how long Athos could comfortably allow his brother to indulge in his self-reproach, and how long their duties could afford while Athos rid him of it. Happily, this was not so today. Although the 'incident' had occurred very early that morning and now the light was rapidly fading outside Aramis' shuttered windows, the day had been eventful, the mission (eventually) successful but had left little time for Aramis to languish in his thoughts over-much. Now, with the rest of the evening stretching out before them and neither of them being needed to commence duties until the following afternoon, Athos was perfectly content to allow Aramis a good, _long_ time to enjoy the stern retribution he had earned himself.

 

“Do you intend to start, or do you wish to daydream a while longer? I only ask because I had hoped to be abed before dawn.”

 

Athos smiled slightly, pulled from his thoughts by the ill-veiled rebuke. Anxious now to have it over with and be at peace once more, Aramis' poor attempt to goad the older man into starting would only cause him to tarry longer over his preparations – six years and Aramis still had yet to learn that. But Aramis was a man of words, and extended silences seemed to unsettle him; that was one of the things that had caused Treville to match them together in the first place – Aramis' incessant need for conversation had filled the long journeys when Athos' withdrawn nature would otherwise have made them unbearable even for himself. And so Athos would not be so cruel as to deny his brother the dialogue he had just invited.

 

“Where would you like me to start?” Athos asked mildly, moving with languid purpose as he set about lowering Aramis' loosened clothing and pulling him more snugly into position.

 

Aramis fidgeted, his lips thin but did not reply.

 

“At the part where you disobeyed my express order _not_ to shoot, thereby giving away our position and jeopardising not only our mission but the lives of both hostages?” Athos had not raised his voice but Aramis flinched and hung his head all the same. “Or when you charged into a fray with a man near twice your size and heavily armed for close combat? Or perhaps the part where you openly accused me of caring more for orders than for the lives of my brothers in front of the boy?”

 

“Athos... _please_.”

 

And there it was: the same two words always spoken by each of them when in such a position, their meanings somehow the same and yet worlds apart. _Mercy. Have pity, Brother._

 

_Don't do this, Athos. I'll do better next time – my heart (_ _and_ _my pride) cannot bear to feel deserving of this._

 

_Hurt me, Athos._ _Stop delaying this with words and_ hurt _me._ _Let me atone for my sins_ _against you_ _and know that I am forgiven._

 

Athos flexed his gloved hand as he drew back, fisting Aramis' shirt at the small of his back with his other hand.

 

“I almost got him killed,” Aramis murmured miserably, his dark eyes haunted and suddenly seeking his friend's over his shoulder. “Oh God above! What if I had gotten him killed?”

 

Athos paused, hand still poised to strike. If d'Artagnan had died that day then Aramis too would have been lost – lost to his guilt and self-loathing – and Porthos would have faded into nothingness too until finally, his friends and brothers gone, Athos would have gladly followed. Such was the risk of forming such close bonds as they had when in their sort of employment. But there was a world of difference between losing a brother to ill-luck and more capable foes, and losing one to your own pride and poor judgement – Athos should know.

 

He had clearly been silent for too long. Left alone with his anguish whilst Athos wallowed in his own, Aramis' body fair trembled from the weight of it. Athos lowered his arm slowly, his hand coming to rest against the small of the younger man's back whilst the other moved to grasp his shoulder firmly.

 

“What use is it to think of that _now_?” he said, answering Aramis' distress with frustrated sympathy. “You did not get him killed. d'Artagnan and the girl are alive and unharmed – mostly. Besides which, the way the boy is going on, I'm certain he will repay you the mistake a dozen times or more before his commission is even confirmed.”

 

“How can you sit there and make light of this?” Aramis huffed, turning away in disgust at Athos' attempt at humour. He lowered his head to rest his chin upon folded arms.

 

“Believe me, Aramis,” Athos said, stern once more, “I do not take any of your actions today ' _lightly_ '.”

 

And with that, the first blow fell.


	3. Chapter 3

_Ouch_. It never ceased to amaze Aramis how no matter how willingly – desperately even – he submitted himself to Athos' correction, once it was begun he found himself cursing himself to high heaven and back for ever being foolish enough to desire it. Athos approached discipline with the same precise forethought with which he approached battle. Striking again and again in precisely the places most dreaded by his victim until they had no choice but to relinquish control and give themselves over to him or else dub him a villain and resist him to the point where the only reasonable course of action left open was to just lay down and _die_ from his attentions. In general, Aramis favoured the first option though he did one day intend to test out the second, the problem being that whenever he tried his body betrayed him and he found himself taking the first course whether he wanted to or not.

 

Athos was not, of course, a villain. He was in fact one of the most patient and understanding men Aramis had ever had the good fortune to meet. His response to seeing the extremes to which Aramis would go in order to demonstrate his penitence had been met not with pity or disgust but rather with sympathetic respect and, as their friendship grew, a fury that Aramis would treat himself so ill. It had been what had driven Athos to take him in hand when he did – not to humiliate or hurt him but to save him the degradation (and injury) of his own flagellation. Still the comparatively mild pain experienced at Athos' hand burned more deeply and sincerely than any whip or fast had ever done. The compassion with which Athos approached the task sat more easily with Aramis than his own methods had, for the God he knew would never demand his children flay themselves before him for the simple crime of being fallible as he had made them. The first time Athos had done this – all but dragged Aramis away from the scene of his wrongdoing and laid into him with word and hand whilst Aramis lay still and unmoved by his efforts – they had not spoken for days afterwards so appalled had they been. But the next, and the time after that had been so tenderly done despite the humiliation he had felt, and inspired by such concern that Aramis had given in and wept from sheer relief that he was to receive the absolution he so craved without having to spill his own blood to earn it. But oh! How he wished had no such need!

 

“Am I boring you that your thoughts are so clearly occupied elsewhere?”

 

Aramis raised his head from where he had been resting his forehead against his clenched fists.

 

“Pardon?”

 

“Well,” Athos began conversationally, his hand still rising and falling with purposeful cadence, “Wherever you've wandered off to in your mind it clearly isn't here. So the question is fairly asked, am I boring you?”

 

How in the world Athos could even ask was beyond Aramis. _Bored?_ Clearly Athos had been fortunate enough not to have been on the receiving end of this for some time or else the question would not have crossed his mind. _Bored_? With Athos' hand slowly creating an inferno in his hindquarters.

 

“Not...not at all.”

 

“Perhaps I should do something to take your mind off it – whatever 'it' may be?” With that, Aramis felt himself tipping forwards, his boots now barely scuffing at the floor as Athos began laying slap after slap against his tender thighs. “Have I your attention now? Or ought I continue like _so_?”

 

Aramis could not help but release the first of what would eventually become many harsh gasps as Athos' swats – which had been by no means insincere – became positively scalding and the pace quickened so that he barely had time to draw breath before the next fell.

 

“No!” Aramis ground out, his face pushed desperately into the crook of one arm. “No! Athos, you have – you _had –_ my attention already – please, I – I – I … _not yet!_ ”

 

It was too soon! Far, _far_ too soon for Athos to be forcing such sounds from him – already Aramis felt his eyes burning! And no! It was too soon for that!

 

“Hush, mon ami.” Aramis felt the pace lessen, the force become somewhat more tolerable, and, insightful as ever: “Peace, Aramis. You will be here a long while yet. Trust me.”

 

“Always.”

 

If Aramis had deigned to look behind and see his friend's face, he would have been surprised perhaps that it did not show the reluctant fondness he had expected to inspire with such an assertion. As it was, he did not look back and therefore had no warning when Athos' voice – which before had been calm, if a little long-suffering – suddenly turned cool.

 

“But you don't _always,_ do you?” Athos said after a moment's pause, “You didn't trust me this morning when I told you to hold fire, did you?”

 

“I...” Aramis shifted uncomfortably, his cheeks flushing, “It wasn't that I didn't _trust_ you, I –”

 

“You thought me wrong,” Athos interrupted, with a particularly sincere _smack_ to emphasise his displeasure at each sentence that followed, “You did not _trust_ that I had properly considered the situation. You did not _trust_ that I had the safety of both captives in mind. You did not trust in my leadership. In my forethought. In my ability to direct a simple rescue mission. And you did not trust that had I the _slightest_ reason to suspect they were about to renege on their word I would have seen us end it before it began!”

 

“I know. I'm sorry.”

 

“ _Not yet_.”

 

Aramis bore the harsher blows once more raining down upon him without protest this time – how could he not when he so deserved them? And Athos had as good as told him they had barely begun. And yet, as he closed his eyes, Aramis felt something deep within him begin to uncoil – yes, he had done wrong but now here came familiar, blessed pain to cleanse his sin. He felt the change as he knew Athos did. Beneath him, Athos shifted again until Aramis was pulled tight against him, and his feet could finally find purchase once more against the floorboards. The pain eased a little, the smacks still burning but bearable and all the while Aramis could feel Athos' keen eyes upon him waiting for the opportune movement to move on.

 

“You put d'Artagnan in danger, Aramis,” Athos said bluntly after several minutes silence.

 

“I know.”

 

“You put the girl in danger.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“All because you couldn't follow a simple order.”

 

“...I know.”

 

“Treville thinks you flout my authority because you feel overlooked by our superiors. He thinks you resent my giving you orders.”

 

“That isn't true!” Aramis could not help but force himself upwards and look aghast at the older man. Athos' hand stilled but he studiously kept his gaze lowered until Aramis spoke again. “Athos,” he said, his voice breaking a little over the name,”I _don't_. You cannot think that of me! He's...he's wrong!”

 

“I _know_. But I don't know what else to tell him.” Athos cast a plaintive look at Aramis and Aramis found himself wondering once again what had passed between his friend and Treville once he had been dismissed. “What happened? For God's sake, Aramis, _why_ did you shoot?”

 

The breath caught in Aramis' throat and he felt tears pricking at his eyes despite doing his damnedest to stop it. How could he tell Athos? Brave, unflinching Athos who never lost his composure no matter the situation. For god's sake, was he not a grown man and one of the king's own musketeers? Had he not earned his place through sheer determination and fearlessness? Had he not lived through countless more perilous missions and with far greater consequences if he failed? How could he admit even to his friend – his brother who trusted him – that he had _panicked_?

 

“I...” he stopped, eyes downcast until finally, unable to face Athos' sincere concern any longer, he turned and laid himself down once more praying that as always Athos would understand the silent invitation.

 

He was not disappointed. No sooner had Aramis retaken his previous position than Athos hand descended with an almighty great slap to the very seat of Aramis' backside. The smacks that followed fell like thunder claps, each one flashing white light across his vision where he pressed his hands against his eyes.It hurt – oh god! It hurt! - but how could his cowardice, his betrayal of everything he cared for, be cleansed by so tenderly given a punishment. Even as the ordeal continued Aramis could feel the gentle motions of a thumb rubbing gently against his back in such contrast to the relentless punishment being visited upon him. He could sense Athos waiting for the very moment he would give in and admit his shame. It was both a blessing and a curse that over the years Athos seemed to have come to know instinctively when Aramis was holding back out of wilfulness or of fear – not fear of further consequence but fear of appearing _less_ somehow than he would have Athos think of him. It was as well that he seemed to know precisely the best way to break Aramis' defences in either case, or else Aramis feared he would never sit a horse again.  


	4. Chapter 4

Something was troubling Aramis. That much was clear to Athos as his gloved hand continued to place ever darkening prints against his younger friend's bottom. It was something more than guilt, something more than the increasing sting being created in his hindquarters, something darker. Aramis, when he had a mind to be, could be stubborn but he was never more so than when he was attempting to shield those he cared for from something. Of course, it helped his determination if in doing so it also shielded himself from something but then he could hardly be held accountable for that – such was human nature. When they had begun, Athos had wondered whether Aramis (who had earlier voiced his incredulity that Athos intended to complete the mission without a skirmish) had truly acted out of pigheadedness, whether Treville was right and Aramis begrudged being given commands by someone whose commission had been bought rather than earned. But Aramis' shock – the horrified, _hurt_ look Athos had received when he raised the subject – had soon put paid to that idea. But still, something was troubling him, and when he had refused to give voice to it Aramis had triggered some dark corner of Athos' mind. It often seemed that Aramis spoke simply for the sake of hearing his own voice, and that he spoke so much that his words meant very little and so it was always with some trepidation that Athos – and indeed anyone else who knew Aramis well – forced him to speak of things he would rather not say. If Aramis' words meant nothing, his silence meant everything. Quite suddenly, Athos knew what it was that was stopping Aramis from seeking the solace he so clearly needed. Ceasing the punishment at once, he rested his stinging hand between the taut shoulders before him. Aramis trembled, gasping a little and swallowing back the sobs Athos knew he was fighting so valiantly to stop.

 

“When I was a child of perhaps ten years old,” Athos began quietly, pushing aside the pain that came with thoughts of his previous life, “our house came under attack. My father had my brother and me hide in the hayloft; he gave me a pistol and told me to protect my brother.”

 

“I'm sure you did so admirably.”

 

Athos smiled a little at that. It was rare that he spoke of his past but Aramis seemed to have made it his life's mission to allow not a single self-condemning thought about it to cross Athos' mind. Even under as much duress as he was, Aramis still sought to _protect_ him. And therein, Athos thought, lay the problem: always, Aramis protected his friends and damn the consequences.

 

“Perhaps,” he agreed, ghosting one hand over the deeply reddened skin beneath it. “When it was over,” he continued carefully, “my father came looking for us...and I shot him.”

 

Aramis went stiff as a board then, emitting a strangled noise.

 

“He wasn't seriously wounded, of course.” Athos pressed down on Aramis' back until he ceased his attempts to turn and offer comfort. It was hard enough as it was, Athos did not foresee much success if he actually had to look at Aramis as he told him of it. “I was but ten, and my aim never has been as good as yours. Still...”

 

“...Why?” Aramis whispered, his body thrumming with pent up anxiety.

 

“It was hardly deliberate!” Athos found himself protesting before he could stop himself – the guilt and immediate defensiveness still seizing him more than twenty years on. Aramis relaxed minutely and Athos wondered whether he had somehow misspoken himself, implied that it had been in any way intentional. He sighed. “I haven't the faintest idea,” he continued more calmly, readying himself for what he was about to admit. He rubbed one hand across Aramis' shoulders, rested it against his friend's neck and squeezed a little. “I _panicked_.”

 

Aramis made no sound, barely seemed to be breathing.

 

“Tho – _my brother –_ was my responsibility, and I could not see him harmed. Perhaps I ought to have said earlier, I had no idea it was my father when he entered. He couldn't possibly have seen us so he was no threat whatsoever, even had he been a stranger I doubt anything would have come of it...But he was armed and I could only think of my brother. I fired, knowing that in all likelihood I was about to get myself killed.”

 

“It's hardly the same.”

 

Athos released an undignified snort even as he shook his head in wonderment. As usual Aramis saw straight through his ploys. How quick and intuitive Aramis was! Even at a time when his throat was so tight with tears that he could barely force the words out. “Why not?”

 

“You...you were only a child.” Aramis took a great shuddering breath but much of the tension drained from his taut body. Athos treasured this. The point to which they often came when Aramis relinquished all judgement of his own and trusted that Athos would help him see the truth of his actions whether he wanted to or not. Though Athos often wondered if that blind trust were ill-placed, it warmed him all the same. And Aramis _did_ trust him after all. That was more than a small relief to Athos; when he had thought Aramis had acted mutinously because he felt Athos' plan so severely flawed, Athos was, he confessed to himself, angry. _Hurt_. He was once more on the road from his childhood home, with Porthos practically bleeding to death and Aramis standing before him outright accusing him of not caring. It was getting to be something of a habit that. But they would come to that. First this needed to be dealt with.

 

“True,” Athos said eventually, “But the fact remains that I acted against reason simply because I could not stand to see my brother harmed. Do you mean to tell me you did otherwise?”

 

They fell into silence for several moments then, Athos waiting patiently for the moment when Aramis would see the truth in it and realise that though he had acted rashly, there was really nothing to atone for. He had done nothing wrong – although yes, it had caused them all trouble – how on earth could Aramis expect Athos to stay angry when his actions had been unintentional, a reflex response to seeing their youngest friend in danger? The crux of that matter of course, was that Aramis did not expect Athos to stay angry and that was half the problem. It mattered not whether _Athos_ felt he was deserving of punishment, because _Aramis_ felt he was deserving of it. But Aramis was an intelligent man, he simply needed a little help every now and then. A strong hand to guide him out of the darkness he had wandered into. If Athos said that there was little difference between their stories, and Aramis felt Athos to have been blameless then by his own logic Aramis himself was blameless. It would just take a few moments for him to puzzle that out and reconcile himself with that fact.

 

Athos felt the change the second it occurred, the very second Aramis' malevolent conscience fell silent. He sagged across Athos, his face falling onto the blanket beneath him once more. Athos nodded to himself, feeling the change like the first breaking through of morning sunlight – it warmed him as it did each and every time to know that he and he alone had relieved Aramis of his burdens, and that Aramis had _allowed_ him to do so. He started spanking again, lightly and carefully this time for Aramis' cheeks were already so sore that to have given him anything more sincere would have been a cruelty neither of them could have borne. As it was and despite Athos' care, Aramis' shoulders quaked as he fisted the coverlet beneath him, his legs twitching with the impulse to kick out and protect himself. He rarely gave in to that urge nowadays but in their beginning and after Athos had fallen foul of Aramis' feet once too often, Athos had frequently chosen to pin him between his legs so as to remove all temptation – a lesson that was certainly proving valuable in his current experiences with d'Artagnan. There was however one defensive move that Aramis had never quite managed to gain mastery over, and that in itself was not so much defensive as pleading. As Athos had anticipated, Aramis gave in to that urge now.

 

“A-thos,” Aramis gasped suddenly, his voice ragged. “Athos, _pleas_ e.”

 

With a soft smile – reserved only for those times when those who had inspired it were not in a position to see it – Athos paused and re-situated him a little before taking the proffered hand currently laying open at the small of Aramis' back in desperate request of comfort. Now clasping Aramis' hand, Athos moved his attentions from the scarlet cheeks before him to the only faintly pink upper thighs where Aramis would feel it most severely in his saddle. Aramis whined miserably into the sheets, his head now buried in the crook of his other arm but otherwise made no protest to the suddenly harsher smacks.

 

“If you are ready to move on,” Athos began, spanking once more with devastating purpose, “I believe we must deal with your little outburst this afternoon.”

 

“ _You_ _sent him to them without so much as a blade!” Aramis had said furiously as they had stopped to rest the horses before returning to Paris. “They were armed, Athos!”_

 

_Athos had not replied, preferring to reserve his thoughts on the matter for later when he could so in private. D'Artagnan had watched them both from beneath Porthos' comforting arm, evidently unsure whether he ought to or even wanted to intercede. Porthos too looked uncomfortable with no trace of his usual amusement when Aramis 'acted out' as he called it. Madame Du Foix, having been assured of her safety had taken to the carriage and, when last checked on, fallen into an exhausted slumber so although he found Aramis' temper rather inappropriate given his behaviour, Athos was content to let it run its course. That was until Aramis spoke next:_

 

“ _They could have_ killed _him!” Aramis spat, snatching the reigns from Athos' hand and tossing them aside. It did not go unnoticed by Athos that his hands shook as he did so, or that he met Athos' gaze for just a little too long as he glared at them all. “If I had not -”_

 

“ _If you'd not what?” Porthos had said suddenly, setting d'Artagnan down on a nearby rock and advancing on Aramis. “Scout it out and don't shoot unless you absolutely_ _had to – that's all you had to do!”_

 

_Aramis had blinked rapidly, and Athos had almost felt sorry for him – how painful and humiliating it must have been to have his dearest_ Porthos _side against him in this! Still, the fact remained that they all bore the injuries of a fray that could have been avoided if Aramis had simply obeyed orders. Aramis deserved a little humiliation; Athos was certainly going to have it in spades when he made his report to Treville._

 

“ _If I hadn't acted then d'Artagnan could have been harmed – Athos left him completely helpless!”_

 

“Athos _did? It wasn't just Athos who formed the plan, you know! And he wasn't in any danger until_ you _started a fight!” Porthos yelled, his rage over seeing his friends hurt (unnecessarily) by far outweighing his usual concern for Aramis' feelings._

 

“ _And what if I did?” Aramis cried out, his eyes everywhere but on his friends. “I acted to protect him – that's far more than either of you were willing to do, clearly!” - he turned accusing eyes on Athos - “God forbid I should act without an_ order _to do so! Did his life even_ cross your mind _when you were -”_

 

_With a growl, Porthos had grabbed him by one arm and, before Athos could so much as open his mouth, laid several smacks upon Aramis' backside that had him rising onto his toes with the force of them. The silence that followed was broken only by Porthos' harsh breaths as he stood towering over Aramis._

 

“ _Porthos.” Athos reached out one hand to draw Porthos away, trying to signal his appreciation for the support whilst also demonstrating how very little he thought of what had just happened. It was rare that Porthos should lose his temper like that, rarer still that he should allow his fury to lead him to strike one of them albeit in the most harmless of ways._

 

“ _I know. That's enough.” Porthos nodded, his incensed gaze still fixed on Aramis. “You wanna watch your mouth.”_

 

“ _Porthos!” Athos repeated more forcefully, stepping between the two of them and glancing pointedly towards d'Artagnan who had sat watching the exchange in varying degrees of anger, shock, and distress. With a disgusted look back at Aramis, Porthos returned to the boy and started fussing over him. Athos knew precisely how Aramis' self-loathing had been building since the morning, so much so that it was inspiring him to turn his cruelty outward, let the accusations fly and to hell with the consequences. All the same, he could not suppress the sigh that escaped him as Aramis gave a derisive snort behind him._

 

“Now _you are both so concerned for him.”_

 

“ _If you are seeking to provoke severity, Aramis,” Athos said calmly, turning to his friend and stepping up to him until Aramis, wide-eyed and seemingly wary, found his back pressed against his saddlebag, “You have done so. Now_ stop. _”_

 

_Aramis would not meet his eyes and so he turned away then, intending to check on the girl, and d'Artagnan before they continued. Admitting himself hurt by his friend's accusations, Athos refused to be swayed into sympathy by the faint trembling of Aramis' jaw or even the too-bright shimmer in his gaze as he lowered his eyes. He was not sympathetic. He was not. Aramis had completely disregarded his authority. Jeopardised their mission – their lives and that of their quarry. Athos would deal with him later but for now? Let him be miserable. Let him bear the sting of Porthos' righteous ire, and d'Artagnan's confused glances as though the poor lad couldn't decide whether or not to be angry._

 

“ _I'm sorry, Athos.”_

 

_It had taken everything in Athos not to turn back when Aramis had whispered that desolate apology. To not turn and brush the lingering tears away with promises of absolution, or to clap one hand to Aramis' shoulder and assure him that the situation was not as irreparable as he seemed to think. What he wouldn't have given to have been blessed with Porthos' gruff affection and been able to wrap Aramis up in a hug and hold him close to reassure him that although his actions had been near-catastrophic and despite their ongoing quarrel, he was not lost to them – as a friend or as a musketeer. But Porthos was still incensed, and what Athos found himself doing instead was nodding briefly and simply saying “Later.”_

 

“I'm sorry, Athos!” Aramis clutched Athos' hand a little tighter, a tiny sob escaping him.

 

“I know.” Athos paused for several moments, his hand still providing a solid reminder of Aramis' position but allowing him time to get better control of himself if he so chose. “I do not think there's much to be said on the subject. Unless you'd like a turn now?”

 

“ _Athos._ Athos, I'm so- so-”

 

“Sorry, yes, you've said,” Athos said, the hint of a smile playing about his lips. But clearly there were things Aramis wished to say and so he slowed once more, his swats measured but firm. “Go on then. Say whatever it is you wish to say, and I shall tell why – as usual – you are wrong.”


	5. Chapter 5

“Go on then. Say whatever it is you wish to say, and I shall tell why – as usual – you are wrong.”

 

This won Athos a choked laugh despite the considerable distress Aramis found himself in.

 

“I was...I was so _angry_ , Athos!” Aramis blurted out eventually, emphasising his feelings with a stamp of his foot then immediately cursing himself for such a childish action. For a moment Athos did not reply and Aramis belatedly realised he was waiting for him to elaborate, perhaps even thinking how terrible it was that Aramis had been angry when _he_ was the one in wrong. He hurried to absolve himself from that at least: “Not at you, or- or Porthos! At _me._ At _myself_!”

 

“Why?”

 

Athos' calm voice broke over him like a wave, washing away any and all traces of self-control he had left. He felt his body go weak, only the hand that was clutching so tightly to Athos' resisting the sudden urge to melt into a puddle of shame, pain, humiliation, and pain. He had counted pain twice, he realised. But Athos had been going at this for what felt like _hours_ , and there was a lot of pain – it surely deserved to be considered twice. That thought tipped him further still into submission. It _hurt. Oh God!_ It hurt so much. And yet surely it was so much less than he deserved? For a moment words proved to be beyond him, and all he could think of was his friends' faces earlier that day when he had dared accuse them of not caring for d'Artagnan, not deigning to protect him like the fiercely loved younger brother that he had become to them all. They had been horrified that he should accuse of them of it. Furious. Even perhaps a little confused. But most of all? He had _wounded_ them with his callousness. Hurt them with words that he did not believe and had only said to attempt to justify what he knew could not be justified – to drown out his own self-loathing!

 

“Why, Aramis?” Once more Athos' familiar drawl broke through, soothing his wretched thoughts like a balm. “Do not make me ask again.”

 

Blinded by his tears and quite unable to find words to explain the levels to which he had sunk to ease his own conscience, Aramis could only sob. Above him, Athos sighed and then WHAP! For a moment everything narrowed; the shame, the self-hatred, the fear: all of it disappeared, chased away by the _inferno_ Athos was suddenly creating upon his scalded buttocks. While Aramis vaguely appreciated the attention being drawn away from his now throbbing thighs, the explosion of stinging pain that each new smack that fell ignited across his bottom made it difficult to think anything at all beyond 'OW!'.

 

“Have I your attention once more?”

 

Frantically, Aramis nodded.

 

“Good.”

 

And the smacks slowed, and lightened and _oh_. Every few swats was interspersed with the lightest of caresses and it felt so nice. So _good_ to be shown this affection after almost a full day of silence and sharp looks and internally berating himself for every word that came out of his mouth from the second he had awoken that morning. And Athos was not yet finished, he knew. They would continue on in this way until Aramiswas ready to stop but it was _Athos_ who would know – _somehow_ always knew – when that time was. Every now and then a particularly hard swat would fall and Aramis would jolt back into his body with a sob, but apart from that? Each smack was falling so lightly and he was so _exhausted_ he could have fallen asleep exactly where he lay if only he could have escaped the steady ache each so-called smack re-ignited.

 

“I was so angry, Athos,” he murmured eventually, turning his head to one side and gazing unseeingly at his own fingers on the bedspread. “I was so _so_ angry and so...so _ashamed_.”

 

“Because the mission could have been lost?” Athos said with the distinct air of someone who _knows_ they are speaking rubbish. Aramis huffed but corrected him anyway.

 

“Because I got you all _hurt_.” His voice broke over the last word and he attempted to withdraw the hand that Athos still held against his back. Athos would not budge, if anything held it tighter, his thumb rubbing against Aramis' wrist gently. “I could hear myself saying those things to you. To you and-and _Porthos_. Could hear myself but I couldn't _stop_!”

 

“I knew what you were doing,” Athos admitted softly, more rubbing than spanking now. “Porthos did too, once he thought about it.”

 

At that, Aramis sobbed again, his throat feeling raw and aching. Porthos _knew._ He had been so furious but he _knew_. They both did. They had seen his callousness, his defiance and _known_ that he did not mean it. If Aramis had not already been weeping steadily, he would have burst into tears from the wondrous embarrassment that kindled within him. Still, he could not help but voice his fears.

 

“Por- Porthos sma-”

 

“Yes, Porthos swatted at you. 'Tis hardly the first time, my friend.”

 

Aramis shook his head frantically, feeling the damp curls stick rather than fly as they normally would.

 

“But it is always difficult to know you have upset him so, I know,” Athos sighed and finally seemed to give up the pretence of continuing to punish him, simply placing his hand upon Aramis' throbbing cheeks and resting it there. “He regretted it later. He would have said so but you refused to be near him.”

 

“I got you _hurt_.” Aramis repeated, shuddering at the recollection. “And then I- I _accused_ you of-”

 

“Aramis, we are speaking in circles. Enough now. Yes, you acted unthinkingly, but you are quite, _quite_ forgiven for that. And yes, you lashed out at us when you could no longer bear it alone – again,” - he patted Aramis' so terribly sore bottom lightly - “I think you have more than paid your debt, my friend.”

 

Aramis was silent for a long while then, willing himself faster into the familiar tranquility that being punished brought him. Athos did not disturb him, but rubbed his back and petted his tousled hair every so often until Aramis felt as if he could _breathe_ again without his entire body shaking from the effort. Finally, as he was beginning to vaguely consider the possibility of standing or at least relieving Athos so that he might at least get some feeling back in his legs, Athos suddenly spoke.

 

“Come on,” he said, his hands stilling as he sat back a little,.“Surely you must tire of this position by now?”

 

Obediently, Aramis slithered down from Athos' knees to kneel at his feet. His trembling all but ceased, he still wrapped one arm immediately around the older man's legs and hugged them to himself as if he were no more than a sleepy child. He felt lighter somehow, as though the burden of his guilt had lifted and pained him no more and for that gift he was inconceivably grateful to Athos. For his current inability to set his backside down lest he reignite the already dulling sting, he was less so. Presently, Athos' hand descended once more upon his head and with affectionate familiarity began to massage and pet the damp hair at the nape of his neck and smoothed the damp curls back from his face. With a sigh, Aramis felt himself sinking lower and lower, his eyelids growing heavy as he felt the familiar weakness that followed such discussions between them coming upon him.

 

“Am I forgiven?” he asked, his voice thick and muffled against Athos' leg. Though he had never been given reason to fear the response, he did not dare look up and face the condemnation he might find.

 

“Always.”

 

The immediacy and sureness of Athos' response caused them both to smile and Aramis did look up then. Upon seeing the weariness in his friend’s face, he drew closer still with a small murmur of concern until that was hushed with assurances that all was well. They sat like that for a long while: Athos with one hand in Aramis' hair, and Aramis curled against Athos' legs his face half buried against them as he gazed unseeingly away. They did not speak either; there was no need for talk now. What needed to be said had been and what had not could wait until Aramis – and indeed Athos – had collected himself enough to say it. For now – but for the occasional whimper and answering hush – there was silence between them.


	6. Chapter 6

 

“I have,” Aramis began after some time, now laying his head against the side of Athos' knee and frowning slightly towards the door, “the most _terrible_ draught down here.”

 

“Do you indeed?”

 

Aramis “mm-ed” absently, making a small noise of protest as Athos' hand momentarily stilled its ministrations.

 

“I can't say I've ever noticed.”

 

“You don't spend as much time on your knees as I do.”

 

Athos did not respond for a moment, the duplicitous meanings of the statement – both of them perfectly true – giving him pause. He looked around, suddenly conscious of the fact that were it not for the narrow strips of moonlight fighting their way into the room, they would be in complete darkness. “I wonder what time it is,” he said eventually, for want of anything better to say.

 

Aramis raised his head a little, seemingly stunned to see the light had faded so much without his noticing.

 

“Porthos and d'Artagnan will probably be out celebrating until morning.”

 

Athos smiled slightly; it had not gone unnoticed by him that there was neither a request nor an offer to join them. Though the pull of inebriated oblivion was as present as always, its allure was not so strong as it might have been – the contented calm that seemed to have descended upon Aramis was contagious it seemed.

 

“Am I to understand you want to join them?”

 

Aramis did not answer at once, sniffing several times before sighing and turning back to rest his chin atop Athos' knee, looking up at him through red-rimmed eyes. “There'll be other times I suppose. But you go... if you want to?”

 

“I'll only have to drag them both home later.” Athos made no move to leave.

 

“Stay then?”

 

“ _I can never get rid of you afterwards,” Aramis had once grumbled – uncharacteristically bashful under Porthos' knowing scrutiny – as Athos and he entered the garrison together at dawn the day after one of his more worrisome schemes had gone predictably awry. “You hang about me like a bad smell!”_

 

“ _You would have it no other way,” Athos had replied mildly, having heard many such protests before, “And you made no such protests last night.”_

 

_Aramis huffed. “Last night I was clearly too overcome to think sense, let alone speak it – as you well know. You took advantage of my hospitable nature.”_

 

“ _You're absolutely right. Perhaps next time I ought to confine you to your rooms in solitude.”_

 

“ _You could give him lines,” suggested Porthos, slinging one arm around Aramis' neck and using the other to mime writing in mid-air, “How about:_ 'I will not piss off Athos – he _will_ let the bandits keep me next time'.”

 

“ _Get off!” Aramis snapped, shoving Porthos away with a scowl that did little to conceal the beginnings of his smile._

 

“ _There's that hospitable nature of yours again.”_

 

“Well, I would hate to insult your hospitable nature,” Athos said now, fighting a grin as Aramis scrunched his face up in good-humoured embarrassment.

 

There had been little point in the exchange, both men having known they would while away the night in each other's company the moment they stepped through the door. Such was their way. Aramis, for all his protestations to the contrary, craved Athos' company after he had been disciplined and Athos could hardly say he felt otherwise. There was satisfaction – peace – to be had in punishing Aramis for his misdeeds but there was greater still to be found in staying with him afterwards and offering him the solace he so needed. Athos did not like to use the word ' _clingy_ ' in reference to his brother – or indeed any grown man – but truly was there any word that better described it? The most that could be said without it was that Aramis became more … affectionate when he had been punished, even more so than usual. It had taken Athos by surprise the first few times – the way he seemed to acquire a second shadow, or feel eyes upon his every move – now though he was resigned to the watchfulness, the near-tripping at every turn. D'Artagnan was so far proving to be just as bad, if not worse. Often times when he was with either of his youngest friends, Athos would spare a thought for Porthos and wonder if he ever felt himself less-favoured not to be granted the same affection sought by their two more troublesome brothers. Porthos did not require Athos attentions as the others did. He erred certainly, but where Aramis dwelt on his wrongdoings and d'Artagnan rarely spared his a second thought but for when Athos demanded it of him, Porthos seemed to accept his own mistakes more readily than any of them. For that was all they were to him – mistakes – an error in judgement to be learned from and not made again but certainly not to be anguished over as the youngest two did. Porthos seemed to require little more than a sharp word or look and later a squeeze of the shoulder and a badly told joke to set his world to rights. They could all of them be spared so much pain – physical or otherwise – if only they were all a little more like Porthos, Athos reflected.

 

“Why didn't you just say it?” Athos found himself asking quietly, his earlier disquiet at Aramis' secrecy resurfacing as the younger man gave a particularly pained hiss. “Why did you not admit it and allow me to deal with it as I saw it?”

 

“Because you wouldn't have 'dealt with it',” Aramis said simply, refusing to look at him. “You'd have had me up and reciting all the reasons why I had done nothing wrong in an instant. You forget I know you too well, my friend.”

 

Athos found he could not argue – though he would dearly have liked to – and instead only sighed. After a few moments' pause, he said irritably, “But why must you do it to me? You allow me to think you will come along willingly and then once I begin you hold out until it's all I can do to keep _patting_ you, let alone anything else.”

 

Aramis said nothing but Athos felt the younger man smile against his knee. He shifted Aramis away from him, crawling higher up the bed until he could sit against the wall with space beside him for Aramis to follow if he were so inclined.

 

“I just feel that if you know we're going to be about it for _days_ , I think you might warn me.”

 

“Days?” Aramis repeated, standing slowly and peeling his stockings off before easing himself onto the bed beside Athos. “You do exaggerate.”

 

“I'm sure it flies by in a mere moment to you,” Athos said, determined to remain aloof and irritable though he raised his right arm as Aramis began to paw at it. “But it certainly feels like days to me sometimes.”

 

“And people think _me_ dramatic,” Aramis tutted, though he shuffled down until he rested upon his side with his head cushioned above Athos' hip.

 

Despite Aramis' apparent annoyance, he still hummed contentedly when Athos lowered his arm again to wrap about the other man's shoulder and pull him in snug.

 

“I don't mean to,” Aramis murmured after a few moments, his voice suddenly hesitant. “I _think_ I want it over and done, but then I start to think of the things I've done – some things you will never agree to punish – and I just...can't help myself. Does it make you angry?”

 

Athos sighed. “Would you feel compelled to seek punishment elsewhere if I refused you?”

 

There was a pause as Aramis considered that. Athos wondered if he really needed to think about it, or whether he simply wanted _Athos_ to think he needed to. Wordlessly, Aramis nodded.

 

“Then no, it does not make me angry.” Almost without meaning to, Athos tightened his grip a little. “But I wish you wouldn't.”

 

“It's necessary.”

 

“So you say.”

 

“I hardly know I'm doing it – it's _mostly_ unintentional.”

 

“It's manipulative.”

 

“I'm sorry,” Aramis said finally, so quietly that Athos almost missed it. He sounded so heartbroken, Athos thought with a sigh. As though Athos had thrown him aside and raged at him for his selfishness.

 

“If there is one thing that you and I – all of us, in fact – must never apologise to one another for, it is that we are what our upbringings have made us,” Athos said, fingers unconsciously straying to ghost over the thin, silvered weals that licked at the base of Aramis' back. Even now, the better part of a decade after he had first seen them Athos had to consciously force himself not to shudder at the recollection of how they had been – ugly, vicious wounds that had seeped crimson stains into Aramis' uniform and left now nigh-imperceptible flecks of rust-coloured liquid upon Aramis' bedroom floor. Even the memory of it made his heart beat faster in protective rage that anybody could ever have thought his brother not only _deserved_ such pain to be inflicted but had actually taken the time to ensure that _he_ believed it too – enough to inflict it himself for pity's sake!

 

Aramis did not speak for a long while, but turned his face to stare up at Athos, his dark eyes warm with soft understanding. Wordlessly, he reached behind himself and removed Athos' hand from his back, instead bringing it between them both with his own hand clasping it. Then, finally, his eyes still holding Athos' gaze, raised that hand to his mouth, a reverent brushing of his lips against the back of Athos' hand.

 

“Thank you....” he said hesitantly, colour rising in his cheeks once more, “for...putting up with me.”

 

They shared a smile at that, both knowing they would not be able to bear it any other way. It gave Athos hope in a way that he saw so much good in Aramis – could find such endless forgiveness for his misdeeds – even when the younger man could not find it in himself. If Aramis, a man of God and The Word, could see goodness in Athos then perhaps his soul was not all as black as he thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...there it is. I'm still not 100% happy so it is likely to be revised a little in future but nothing major just little bits. If you notice anything that needs editing please let me know, it's unbeta-ed so if anyone would like to volunteer....

**Author's Note:**

> If anybody has reached the end of this and would like to read anything else by me (i'm not writing much at the moment but there's a few up) then my username is Tia_Pixie. Forgive my anon status on the tags - but once bitten... There is now a more severe fic (Aramis/Treville) on there but i'm not sure whether to link them at the moment.


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